Shit. Okay. Shit. She won’t say it out loud, but I’m pretty sure she means the hospital.
“And Kitty’s strong as hell, okay? But she’s not your kind of strong.”
“What kind is that?”
“You’ve got a strong core.”
I snort. “What makes you say that?”
“What was your childhood like?”
A bunch of images—moments—take over like only memories can. I’m hit with the smell of coffee, bacon, and apple pie, as if the whole thing’s right here in this kitchen, freshly brewed and fried and baked. Mom sashaying through the diner, slinging plates full of food, belting outYou’re BeautifulandSomewhere Only We Knowand all those other sentimental songs I haven’t thought about in ages. I’m doing homework at the counter and I…belong. I’m happy and I belong.
“It was good,” I say, without looking up. “It was great.” Until it wasn’t. But that’s not something I’ll be getting into anytime soon.
“Kitty’s was rough. You know she lost her parents early on? Car accident?”
I nod, slowly, trying to piece together what exactly Frank had said. “Yeah. Frank told me.”
“Those early years matter. They give you the inner strength you’ll need to deal with the shit life throws at you from then on out.” She tapes up one hand and moves to the other. “Wherever you acquired your toughness, Jake, I figure it was built on a solid inner core.”
Not sure how the woman perceived that, but I let it go and continue to listen.
“Kitty, now? She’s all bark. Just layers and layers and layers of it. So frickin’ tough, you know? Doesn’t let a damn thing inside.” She sighs and stands, stretching before grabbing her stool and folding it to put away. “Problem with all that protection is if something gets inside, you got no way to…to handle it. She doesn’t let herself feel anymore. Too damn painful after that prick…”
“What did he do?” My voice is ground glass.
“Nothing you need to get in a tizzy about.”
“Look, Frida, just tell me what the man?—”
“Just dude shit, okay? Just shitty men being shitty.” She shakes her head. “Nothing you need to get all violent about. The guy was a selfish prick and, far as I can tell, he continues to be one.” Her eyes narrow on me, possibly measuring me up against the man. “Did you know that married women live shorter lives than those who don’t have husbands?” She finishes up the second hand.
“Well, Frida.” I stand. “It’s been a blast hanging out, but?—”
The door swings open, thank god, cutting me off mid-sentence. “Eight’s done with apps.” Cora drops a pile of plates at the dishwashing station and heads back out again.
Frida and I jump into gear.
My body’s moving slow and calm, the way it always does behind the line, but inside, there’s a whole lot of discomfort.
I turn the oven heat up for the soufflé. “You warning me off her?”
“Hell, no.” Frida doesn’t look at me while she chucks a few oysters into the fryer and spoons seaweed and sesame garnish onto the plates, her body moving with the quick efficiency of an expert.
“Then what’s your point?”
“My point, Chef, is to keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.” She flashes me a grin, showing a set of teeth that’re slightlycrooked and yellowed with age, then goes back to prepping her plates. “’Cause she’s looking almost relaxed.”
“Jesus,” I say, wondering if Frida’s got any idea what Kit and I have been getting up to together. With my next inhale, something eases open in my chest. “You think?”
She grins. “I know.” And then, because we’ve gotten to be friends, I guess, and she’s hell bent on having this awkward moment with me, she leans in and says, “Just be careful. I like you both.” Frida uses a forefinger to trace an up and down in the air between us, as if she’s outlining my body from top to bottom. “Plus you kick ass in the kitchen.” Before I have time to brace, she finishes with, “I’d hate for whatever y’all are doing to backfire and ruin my stable work environment. You’re here for three more weeks. Don’t fuck it up. Order up!” She yells in the exact same breath. She reaches out to ding the bell and turns to let Toni know he’s slacking on the pots and pans, leaving me on my own to fire table nine’s mains in a weird, half shell-shocked limbo.
It’s almost closing when I head back to dry goods to grab flour. I’m baking a cake. Ostensibly for tomorrow’s dessert special, but it’s really for Kit.
The woman loves cake with a passion that turns me way the hell on and, like Frida, I really like seeing Kit happy.
Kit
